‘Basically, she wants you off the study, and she says they’re discarding the one-off result because it didn’t fit the protocol, was not serendipitous but was the outcome of a deliberate intervention, blah blah.’
‘Did she say what the result was?’
‘She implied they hadn’t tested it. Fat chance. If it had tested low, she’d have been falling over herself to include it.’
‘Terrible science.’
‘Agreed. I made a good call putting you on the job, didn’t I?’
‘It’s possible that a person who cared about appropriate social behaviour would have given it priority over the research objective.’
The Dean laughed.
‘I have to say, Professor Tillman, you’re a fine scientist, but I sometimes wonder how Rosie copes.’
Rosie was not coping well with me.
One of the curious things about animals, including humans, is that we spend approximately one-third of our lives sleeping. There is no practical way around this inefficiency. In my twenties, I had conducted a series of trials to establish my minimum sleep requirement, and had settled on scheduling seven hours and eighteen minutes per night, excluding all light from the bedroom, and never using amphetamines again.
As we age, we sleep less soundly: one evolutionary explanation is that in the ancestral environment the young hunters and warriors required undisturbed sleep, while the older members of the tribe acted as watchdogs and needed to be woken by the slightest noise.
In sleep terms, Rosie was already a watchdog. She woke frequently, and exacerbated the problem by visiting the toilet and making herself a cup of hot chocolate, which of course began a vicious circle. Before she was pregnant Rosie would sometimes go to bed early, exhausted or intoxicated; on other occasions she would study until after 1.00 a.m. and come to bed animated and even wanting to initiate a conversation. At 1.00 a.m.! Sometimes she would also be interested in sex, in which case I accommodated the change to my routine and scheduled additional sleep for the following night.
I had become accustomed to being woken, and generally managed to fall asleep again within a few minutes. But the aggregate effect could not be ignored and I was forced to reschedule my bedtime to thirteen minutes earlier.
The pregnancy aggravated the problem. As predicted by The Book, the expanding baby and its associated support system had reduced Rosie’s bladder capacity. And Rosie had begun snoring, not loudly but enough to be disruptive. I had to reschedule bedtime again.
We had a discussion about the problem at 3.14 a.m.
‘You shouldn’t have had the hot chocolate. It’s going to recreate the toilet problem. And then you’ll have another hot chocolate—’
‘The hot chocolate helps me sleep.’
‘Ridiculous. Chocolate contains caffeine. Caffeine is a stimulant with a four-hour half-life. It’s inadvisable to drink coffee or eat chocolate after 3.00 p.m. I never—’
‘You never. I know you never. But I do. It’s my body, remember?’
‘Caffeine is a restricted substance.’
‘I’m allowed two coffees. I’m off coffee, so this makes up.’
‘Have you calculated the caffeine in the chocolate?’
‘No. I’m not going to, either. How about I solve your problem? And my problem too.’
Rosie pulled the duvet from the bed and walked out.
Now my own body rebelled and refused to sleep. I used the time to reflect on Rosie’s departure. Was it for one night or permanently? Rationally, it was a good solution to the problem, which was at least in part temporary. After the pregnancy was over, Rosie could begin sleeping normally again. For now, we would need to purchase another bed. Then I realised that Rosie had nowhere to sleep: there was no other bed in the house. Unless she was sleeping with Gene.
I jumped from the bed and tiptoed towards Gene’s room. Rosie’s study door was open and she was curled up in an armchair, covered by the duvet. She did not move. I returned to the bedroom, dragged the mattress off the bed, and manoeuvred it into Rosie’s study, which was considerably bigger than our bedroom. Rosie woke.
‘Don? What are you doing?’
‘Creating a temporary bed.’
‘Oh. I thought—’
She did not complete her thought, but half-staggered from the chair to the mattress and lay down. I covered her with the duvet and returned to the bedroom, where I succeeded in sleeping on the padded bed base. It was perfectly satisfactory, and my karate teacher would doubtless regard it as good discipline. In fact, the bed had been a compromise between Rosie’s personal desire for softness and the optimum firmness as recommended by scientific studies. I had now created an arrangement more satisfactory to both of us.
Rosie obviously agreed, as she continued to sleep in her study every night, and I reinstated my original sleeping hours.
23
I had the spaceship nightmare again. It was, as far as I could remember, exactly the same, with the same fatal result. Except this time, when I woke up, Rosie was not there.
Gene was also concerned by the change in sleeping arrangements, which he noticed two days later. In his analysis, Rosie sleeping in the other room equated to a rejection of me.
‘Be practical, Don. Why do people sleep together?’
‘Sex.’ It was always likely to be the correct answer to a question from Gene about motivation. ‘Which is not required by evolution now that she is regnant.’
‘Too glib, my friend. Humans conceal their fertility to encourage ongoing closeness. For all sorts of reasons. We may not be monogamous, but we’re all about pair-bonding and Rosie is sending you a big message.’
‘What have I done wrong?’
‘Let me tell you, Don, you’re not the first man to ask that question. Usually after he’s come home to find the television gone.’
‘We don’t own a television.’
‘So I’ve noticed. Whose idea was that?’
‘There’s no requirement for a television. Higher-quality news is available from other media without advertisements; movies are available on bigger screens in theatres, and for all other requirements we have individual computer monitors.’
‘That’s not what I asked. Whose idea was it?’
‘The decision was obvious.’
‘Did Rosie ever mention buying a television?’
‘Possibly. But her arguments were flawed. You’re suggesting that our marriage is in trouble because of the lack of a television? If so, I can—’
‘I suspect it goes a bit deeper than that. But if you want a specific answer to the question “What did I do wrong?”, then it’s the ultrasound. You should have gone. That’s the point where Rosie started to wonder if you really wanted to be a father. Not whether you were capable, which is another matter, but whether you were even interested.’
‘How can you be so certain?’
‘I’m the head of a psychology department, you’ve already confided in me about your own doubts, which Rosie will surely have picked up on, and I’m aware that Rosie’s own background includes a problematic father situation.’
‘That problem was solved.’